


Sickness in Motion

by theblindtorpedo



Category: Fate/Zero, ロード・エルメロイⅡ世の事件簿 - 三田誠 | Lord El-Melloi II Case Files - Sanda Makoto
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, mentions of Iskander, no smut just mentions of sex between consenting adults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 01:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22423867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: A relationship blossoms and a life fades. After Melvin's death Waver meditates on the beauty of pressed flowers.
Relationships: Waver Velvet/Melvin Waynez
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	1. Waver

It is on the way back from the blazing tomb that they first share a bedroom. It is near noon, the sun pressing upon them like a clingy lover, when the magic in the motorcycle starts to falter as Waver’s brain fogs and his head sags against Melvin’s back. He can feel the other boy’s stance weaken, from lips that had carried gallant laughter now came labored gasps.

“We should . . . stop,” Waver whispers into the soft down of his friend’s coat. Even in this heat the other boy is wrapped tight. In Waver’s altered state he recognizes the oddity. Before he had never questioned Melvin’s propensity for layers, a necessity even for the average man in England, but here it strikes him as terribly wrong. Close to Melvin’s neck, he can see small hairs on the other’s skin where it shines with sweat yet trembling, still pale as a page.

“You need to stop.” No answer. Instead Melvin lets out a gentle hum and the engine roars a little louder to urge them onward. “Melvin, I’m tired.”

The other boy concedes in dropping the wheels against the street’s curb. Waver slides off with a weary sigh to find they have halted in front of a sort of casual inn. He has no way to ascertain if this is by luck or design, as Melvin climbs off the motorcycle and promptly collapses. Waver’s arms catch him before he hits the ground dirtied in only the way the most well lived in spaces are.

“Do you have any money?” he hisses under his breath. It would do not to arouse more suspicion from the numerous already curious eyes. A small girl passes by and makes a grab at Melvin’s foreign-white hair before a small snarl from Waver makes her turn away. Melvin does not raise his eyes, but he shuffles inside his coat and presses a few coins against Waver’s chest. Waver is relieved to see at least he had the good sense to exchange for local currency before getting grafted and locked in an underground jail.

The joke of a receptionist snatches up their money wordlessly before throwing them a key and returning to her carving project. The room is Spartan, but not unlivable. Waver lies Melvin on the bed. Eyes closed, as if entranced, clothes are shed, and pale limbs pulled under the covers and wrapped up tight. Waver bears him little mind as he also falls upon the bed and his exhaustion overtakes him.

\----------

The first time they share a bed together is the first time Waver has ever seen Melvin undressed in any capacity. Melvin’s body lies vulnerable, hair splayed like a wisp of cotton on the dark sleeve of the bed, about to be blown away by a sudden gale. Waver experiences an unfamiliar tug at the back of his brain, a desire to hold Melvin down so he will not be carried away on that wind. His hand moves instinctually until fingertips are pressed against the other boys shoulder. In that miniscule connection of skin, a moment is held. Melvin breathes. Waver breathes. Then the fingers tighten to awaken his friend.

Melvin’s expression is glazed as if he does not recognize the green eyes that stare back at him across the pillow. Waver expects a chirpy greeting, a friendly cuffing on the ear, or some salacious comment at their position, but Melvin is slow like syrup as he raises himself, a hand pressed to his mouth. Then he is lurching towards the bathroom sink arriving just in time to spill a torrent of blood down the drain.

“You can’t do that here, you idiot, we don’t have money for extra cleaning!“ Waver makes to reach him, to clean up the mess, but a hand is abruptly held up to bar him from approaching. The firmness of the action and the tightness in Melvin’s posture startle him into silence and stillness.

Waver has never witnessed the ritual before. Slender fingers swipe at the bloodied sink and paint a sigil onto slight chest. The lines Melvin draws are uneven with his trembling, but quick and sure from muscle memory. An incantation that Waver can barely hear hovers in the air and Melvin’s chest glows lightly before the blood seeps underneath the layers of skin. The tap is pulled and Melvin makes to wash the sink. He splashes water over blood-soaked lips until they look as if they are only flushed pink by passion rather than pain.

Waver sees the white knuckled grip the other boy holds on the edge of the sink. With each heaving breath Melvin pulls himself upward until he is staring defiantly in the mirror. Brows furrowed. Angry. A hard thump as a fist hits the rock counter, but in a split second the mischievous twinkle is back in his eye and he is turned to smile at Waver. Melvin wears his nakedness with honesty. There is no posturing or preening of the elegant body untainted by work or sun. There is no cowering or hiding the lines of rib and the too sunken belly. There is especially no ignoring the cock that hangs between near hairless legs. Waver can feel his cheeks heating up as if he can feel shame enough for them both and ducks to hide behind dark bangs. Melvin laughs and shuts the bathroom door. The sound of the shower running follows soon after. 

They catch the soonest plane home and never speak of that morning.


	2. Melvin

At the airport, bathed in moonlight, they make promises to each other with hands clasped. That evening, Melvin is curled up on the floor of his bathroom, too worn out from his own convulsion to move until he is inevitably found by one of the servants. With the familiar porcelain pressed to his cheek he has all the time to contemplate the journey back. He feels the ghost of a hand on his shoulder and the soft caress of Waver’s fingertips from that morning in the inn room. Tenderness swept under the rug. It was that tenderness that kept him from being forward, from leaning into kiss or from pushing bodies together. He knew he was beautiful in his own way and had been able to use his natural charms to convince a few into past tumbles in the sheets.

Yet, he had been scared then, scared any move might frighten the other boy away, and Melvin had not been willing to take a disastrous chance on something so important. He was raised to play the long game. But tonight, Waver had spoken with such fervor and energy and so lovely in his conviction and begging. Melvin had visions of Waver broken and triumphant, crying and laughing, a future pulsing in its brightness. A future he did not have, but perhaps Waver would share a bit with him. Sure, it had all gone to his head, but it was no excuse to be so caught up he had not thought of the consequences when he grabbed Waver’s hand in his . . . and Waver had not pulled away. 

He hopes he is making some progress.

He hopes there is enough time. 

Long game be damned.

\----------

The event is rapturous. There is enough magic flowing through the room from so many mages concentrated together that the seal on his body is stronger than usual and he is certain he can last the night without any physical tumult. Melvin twirls with glee and aplomb and perhaps it makes his playing a tad more erratic, but who’s to notice when he can still sweep notes into the air that elevate the magic around him, with the rest of the string quartet in support. The young Clock Tower graduates covert and giggle and he is buoyed on the green excitement of youth.

Waver stands against a wall with a champagne flute in his hand and Melvin can tell he would rather be drinking something heavier. With so many influential young mages and their families in place, the graduation ball requires all hands on deck for security in case of any incident, and Waver iss low on the list of those who could resist guard dog duty. Melvin hopes Waver feels a spark of jealousy to see that at least he was having fun. He starts to fiddle out a jauntier tune, the crowd cheers and isn’t it wonderful to be appreciated, to be admired for once?

Melvin catches Waver’s eyes again and there is a break in the Lord’s brooding to wave awkwardly in acknowledgement of the violinist. A calculated tug of the bow and Melvin shoots a line of deep red magic straight towards the other man. Waver’s eyes widen, hands clutch in surprise as it hits his chest. Melvin waves his bow and index finger. Caught off guard? Work harder, he mouths and flounces towards the other end of the stage before Waver can retort.

\----------

“Where did you go? I looked all over for you!” Melvin slides onto free barstool. Waver is hunched over the wood, arms crossed, and he has found a drink stronger than the champagne. The clock on the wall notes half past 1 am.

“I wasn’t needed anymore.”

“You didn’t want to stick around to spend time with your very best friend?”

“Well, you’re here now. We’re spending time together.”

“Lord El Melloi II is so generous with his time. Wonderful!” Melvin exclaims and flags the bartender over.

“We are actually closing in about a half hour-“ a wad of notes slides across the table “-whatever you’d like to have.” Melvin points at the vodka on the wall.

“So, how do you feel about the new graduates?” Melvin casually twirls the edge of his bow tie.

“I am proud of their accomplishments.”

“And sad most of it will go to waste?”

Waver snorts derisively and takes another swig of his whiskey. “Yes. Obviously.”

“Does it pain you, that all your work, all your efforts are squandered upon the naïve youth who ride on their parents’ coattails to magical victory.”

“I like to believe I create a positive influence in their relationship to Magecraft.”

“For both you gentlemen.” The bartender sets two filled shot glasses upon the counter. Melvin grabs both and downs them in quick succession.

“Should you really be doing that?”

Melvin licks the bitter taste of his lips. He wonders what Waver’s whisky tastes like. He wonders what Waver’s mouth tastes like.

“I can’t imagine that alcohol is good for your condition.”

“Nothing’s good for my condition.”

The alcohol weaves its work with speed and Melvin can feel his body warm. The exertion of the evening catches up to him and feels heavy. Perhaps it is the liminal space of the dark bar or his empty stomach filled with liquor, but he swoops his head, capturing his companion’s mouth in his.

Waver jerks back.

“Melvin, no.”

“Waver, yes.” And he is climbing off his stool to wrap himself around the other man who for his protest does not move or push him away. Wavers hands come to grasp at his sides as Melvin peppers kisses down his jaw, reveling at Waver’s sighs that vibrate against him.

He finds Waver’s lips again and this time there is no resistance and the two pull and parry with increasing speed as the taste of vodka and whisky and magic swirl together in delectable harmony. When they break apart to rest for breath Waver’s hands have moved upwards and they are stroking his hair and Melvin wants to cry at that unexpected affection. He can’t let the beating in his heart overtake him now. It wasn’t part of the plan.

“If I call a cab will you come home and let me fuck you?” he whispers against the shell of Waver’s ear and relishes the full body shiver is words induce.

“I can’t.” Oh, Waver is blushing down to his neck now, and Melvin is encouraged to see how far he can make it extend. “I’ve never . . . I’m sorry.”

“I’ll show you.”


	3. Waver/Melvin

Melvin does not call in the morning nor does he show up at the Clock Tower. Waver walks the rote steps of his life, lesson prep, meetings, classes. There are other things to occupy his time, such as cigars and a drink with an empty barstool beside him.

“Sir, I really think you should go see him.”

He and his apprentice find themselves standing in front of a music store. The violins gleam with varnish and the score pages seem to hold promises, mysteries. He does not remember stopping here.

“Grey,” Waver bristles at the light chastening, “please cease you pestering. Melvin and I have just had a slight hitch in our relationship. I am simply waiting for him to come forward.”

“But what if he’s waiting for you to reach out to him?”

“Preposterous. What on Earth could he be waiting for? This is Melvin we are talking about. If that night is any evidence, he takes what he wants, and if he wanted to be here he would be. I’m sure he’s keeping his distance on purpose. Establishing boundaries as it were. I understand completely.”

“I still think you should talk to him.”

Waver scrubs at his face and stomps away from the window.

\----------

“Has my noble steed finally returned?” comes the cry from the window. Waver folds his arms impatiently from where he stands on the doorstep. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“I’d almost given up on you,” Melvin says, as he throws open the door and pulls Waver forward into a hug. When they pull apart Melvin’s absolute look of relief is writ large across his face.

“You didn’t have to wait for me.”

“I’ll always wait for you, Waver Velvet.” Melvin links their arms together and it is so easy as always, a peace and a piece he did not register as missing until it was back with him. “Where shall we go? The bakery? The park?”

“I actually have some work to do so I thought we’d just head back to the Clock Tower.”

“And here I thought you were asking me out on a date. Did you feel nothing after our night of passion?” Melvin purses his lips in exaggerated coy disappointment.

“Don’t worry. I would not sully your carefree reputation by tying you down in such a way. If you expected any large romantic gestures from me you will not have to suffer them.”

“Of-of course. Excuse me-“ The other man turns to retch into a convenient handkerchief and Waver detects the action might be more forced than usual, but does not dwell on it. “Well, then just as good as friends then.” 

Waver is relieved. A one-time mistake. He could not afford a lover, especially not one of Melvin’s flippant nature who could, would throw him overboard as soon as the next skirt sailed his way. A heart can only take being broken so many times.

\----------

Melvin snarls and throws the pillows across the room.

“Watch the light!” the maid yells as she catches it with nimble fingers, before bending down to attend to the blood on the floor. Melvin continues to pace, his frantic feet paying no mind to the mess he spreads further, dark stains trapping him to the ground.

“If I fucked you-no, if I made love to you would you consider-would you perhaps think of a romance? Is it not natural for two people who have been very close for so long and culminated an attraction to each other-is it not natural to expect a hint of romance afterwards? Perhaps a letter of confession? A shy request for a candle-lit dinner at home?”

“This isn’t a conversation we should be having, Master Weins.”

“Don’t you dare Master Weins me right now this is a serious question! I trust you to reply with honesty. Actually, I demand it as the duty of a loyal servant of the Weins household.”

The maid des not answer the question. Instead she says: “If you wish to court him why don’t you? I have not known you to shirk from what you desire in the past. Why do you wait for him? Lord El Melloi is an unconventional man I do not think he would be conventional in his romances.”

“Because I . . .” Melvin slumps and the maid raises from her task to gently put her arms around him. He buries his head in her bosom and breaths in a familiar comfort. This same girl who has cradled him through so many fits of illness and so much bodily refuse. Patience of a saint. “I want him to make the choice. He’s seen this.” Melvin gestures at his body and the blood-soaked shirt. “I have to know he’s making the choice despite it all. Is that wrong of me?”

“I don’t think so,” she replies. “It is not wrong of you, but in my experience men are stupid. Perhaps he needs a little pressing in the right direction? And not of the physical variety.” She turns his head to grasp it in both hands. “You should tell him how you feel, Master Weins. How much time do you have left? Make a decision.”

\----------

One more year.

The doctor’s words ring in his ears, an unholy hymn, and although the colored swirl of holiday decorations adorns the streets the world feels grey and lifeless as he stares out the window of the car.

“Sweetheart, do you want anything? Do you need anything?”

“No, Mother.”

Victoria Weins presses painted lips together. The car stops and the chauffeur opens the door, letting the winter wind in to assault its occupants. Victoria steps out, all regality, in her white muff and blue fur coat. Melvin follows with a shuffling motion only to clutch at his sides where the parka is still not quite enough to protect against the chill. Victoria draws out a velvet gloved hand and wraps her son’s scarf more tightly around his thin neck. He coughs lightly and the drops of blood create pinpricks of red in the snow.

“We’ll go away,” Victoria says. “See the world some more. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Italy in the Spring, Russia in the summer, Japan in the winter? I hear they have wonderful hot springs there.”

Melvin winces and says nothing.

“Perhaps not then. Come, dear, let’s get you inside and into bed.”


	4. Waver/Melvin

“All right, I will be generous and not ask for the whole summer. How about a month?”

“No.”

“Week?”

“No.”

“All expenses paid long weekend?”

“I said no, Melvin.”

“You’re just not imagining it properly! It’ll be beautiful! The sand and the water the summer stars! We could watch the fireworks together.”

“I’m not too interested in looking at stars.”

“Hm, here I thought you were. I see you do it all the time when you walk me home. You stop for a second and tilt you head up like you’re searching for something up there.”

“I have no interest in the ocean.” Waver feels the memory of a dream: waves, the spices of Macedonia, and desert sand.

“Maybe you don’t, but maybe I want to see you in a swimsuit consider that?”

Waver slams his book shut defiantly. “For the last time, I am not going to the Canary Islands for the summer with you. This is the end of the conversation. I have work to do here. Something you wouldn’t know anything about.”

His outburst does silence Melvin. The other man withdraws his hands from where they had been planted on Waver’s desk and takes a step backwards in defense. “I can’t work. You know that.”

“Well maybe you should.”

Melvin leaves.

\----------

It is dinnertime. The golden light gleams through tall windows onto where Victoria and Melvin sit across the dining room table like they have for three decades. He wonders how he never noticed how far away she is. He wants to be closer, to revel in intimacy that they cannot quite achieve with the table in between. He wants a dinner where the food is immaterial over the company, but they are eating soup again. Although delicious, it is simple, hearty broth with soft vegetables and chicken, and he wonders if she rages in private at the monotonous meals. It is all he can eat now. Does she spend her time alone consuming racks of lamb or spicy hotpot? His mother is always home when he is, but what does she do while he sleeps or when he visits the Clock Tower? Perhaps she goes out dancing? He wishes he could still go out dancing. He wonders if she resents him. He would not begrudge her for counting down the days until it is all over.

“You’ll want to get your affairs in order. I’ve scheduled the lawyer to arrive next week.”

“Ugh, must I? He’s so stuffy and boring. Why should I care what happens to my money. You’ll take care of it won’t you?” 

“Act like an adult. This isn’t about the money. You don’t have any possession you’d like to give away? Any last messages?”

“I’ll think about it. What about you? Aren’t you worried about my magical circuits going to waste?”

“We’ll have a transference ceremony. If I was worried about our family’s circuits I would have had another child. It does not matter to me if the Weins circuits stop here. We were never much but a branch family and what good has magic ever done us?”

She bows her head and Melvin can see the glimmer of tears at the edge of her eyes. He feels a tightening in his chest where the binding seals sit.

“Have you met with Lady Reines about finding another tuner for the El Melloi crest?” she asks, pulling herself away from that sad place. “You can’t leave your responsibilities untied. We can’t let your memory be burdensome.”

He lets out a hard, barking laugh. “I hope to be a burden on the El Melloi house.”

“Don’t be cruel!” Victoria admonishes.

“I can’t help it.”


	5. Waver

Waver prides himself on his reflexes built up from years of nerves, of any ambient noise setting him on edge as his brain transforms it into the soar of swords and the clashing of lances.

Still he is not prepared for any untoward happening during the minute when he leaves his apartment. He is not prepared when the car parked outside opens, a gust of magic and a determined hand drag him inside and he is whisked away by a white-haired man he had last seen slinking dejectedly out of his office four months ago.

“What are you doing?!” 

“It’s a birthday present, dear Waver,” Melvin says.

“My birthday was yesterday.”

“It’s my birthday present,” he corrects, “We’re not going far, just to my country estate. One day please? Just stay with me for one day?”

There is an earnestness in his eye, no hint of calculation or scheme, and it is enough for Waver’s anger to deflate.

“One day . . . I suppose I can spare that.”

\---------- 

“Lord El Melloi II, I did not know you were going to join us.”

Waver had never seen Victoria Weins like this. He had seen her in tight cocktail dresses, hair tied up tight, all dazzling white eyeshadow and magenta lipstick. He had seen crisply tailored business suits with perfectly contoured face and gold earrings. Here in loose gingham and face free of makeup she looks plain, but she stood with the same posture of nobility.

“Your son invited me.”

Melvin dashes forward and throws his arms around his mother. Waver watches her eyes crinkle in joy, but he also notices the deep purple bags she has not tried to hide here in their sanctuary.

“Ill stay out of your way,” she assures, “Lord, will you should try and take my son on a walk, he has not been out of the house in some time. Just please have him back by sunset.”

The autumn wind is brisk and invigorating as they stroll through the grounds. It is so like all their previous strolls, arm and arm, comfortable and familiar. Melvin chatters. He tells Waver of all the summer experiences: taking exotic women to bed, getting caught in a storm while fishing on the Atlantic, escapades chasing goats for their milk. There is no accusation in his tale. If Melvin was angry or upset at Waver’s refusal to accompany him, he does not fixate on it. Melvin is happy to share with him here in the now.

Every few feet or so Melvin spots a bit of nature that takes his fancy. Most often a flower, quick snap of the wrist and the white-haired man scoops them up until his arms are filled, overflowing with leaf and stem and petal.

They return to the house with Melvin holding a whole bouquet, beaming like a bride. 

“Put them in a vase. Not a terribly fancy one, but in the library please. I have plans for them.”

Waver raises an eyebrow.

“Have you ever thought about pressed flowers? It is the optimal form of floral beauty, “ his companion explains, “Keeping them in vases, after you’ve already doomed them to death from picking them, it’s sadistic. The flower, industrious, continues to persist in keeping itself alive with no knowledge of its inevitable failure and in doing so it sacrifices its beauty, only to be remembered as dark, drooping eyesore before being thrown out with the trash. Now, pressing flowers: that is rewarding nature for its ingenuity, by expediting death you are able to preserve beauty.”

“I have never much considered it, I’ll admit.”

“I’ll show you my book once it is complete.”

“I look forward to it.”

It is heartening to see Melvin invested in a project, Waver thinks, a hobby or a purpose past being an aimless ghost of Clock Tower hallways. His friend needs some direction in his life. Flowers are significantly more innocuous than loaning money to strangers. Here with the flowers Melvin will be safe and Waver will not have to worry.

\----------

The evening is a vegetable soup, but it is quick before Melvin excuses himself to stretch across the sofa. It is not cold enough to warrant a fire, but he calls for the blaze to be lit. Waver is too hot, but Melvin shivers so Waver sits with handheld game in hand while his friend curls in like a cat, cheek pressed to Waver’s thigh. There is companionable silence for an hour until they are disturbed by the maid, who bashfully holds out a cup of water and a tray of pills. Melvin peers over his shoulder.

“Do you wish to take these today, sir?” Melvin hesitates, eyes flick from the tray to Waver and back. Waver’s stomach sinks with a realization. Melvin is asking him for permission, if today they will ignore his illness or allow its presence to loom over their idyllic day.

“He’ll take all of them.” He says and removes the tray from her hand. He holds the pills in palm, proffered in front of Melvin like a dog. Melvin picks them off his hand and places them on that small pink tongue, but he does not take the water.

“I want wine.”

“That would interfere with the medication.”

“Just one drink, don’t be a nag. It’s my birthday and I don’t give a shit.”

Melvin polishes off the wine, swallowing straight the bottle and Waver would stop him, but with every sound of protest Melvin throws a stormy glare his way. He takes a single glass but feels no enjoyment from it. He remembers the last time they drank together, the night that ended in him finding his climax with Melvin’s mouth wrapped around him. He can tell Melvin ruminating on the same as the other man slinks forward and wraps a hand around his neck.

“Let’s go to bed.”

There aura hovering between them is static and electric, both dangerous and alluring. Waver can feel Melvin’s arousal and sour mood envelop him. He should feel apprehensive or frightened, but he makes no move of retaliation when Melvin shuts the door behind them. Nor does he resist when he is shoved against the door and a firm mouth is on his. Tremulous legs retreat until backs of knees hit the edge of the double bed (already opened for them) and Melvin is too rough, he pulls and scrapes and bites like a desperate animal. Manicured nails yank at his tie and tear at his clothes. Waver can barely catch his breath.

Then Melvin gasps and it is not from pleasure. His grip goes slack and he sinks back into the bed, eyes averted. Waver waits, but Melvin is unmoving. So, he climbs over him and Melvin jolts in surprise, as if he had expected Waver to have disappeared after his indiscretion. A single hand raises to trace the edge of Waver’s jaw. Without losing eye contact, Waver tucks Melvin’s legs off the ground and folds them both into the sheets. He pulls the covers over them and the bed is a small universe with only two heavenly bodies.

“I didn’t want it to end like this.”

“How long do you need? An hour?”

“I believe I am too tired tonight. It’s all right.” Melvin snuggles closer to press their bodies together, but Waver can hear the regret in his voice. So, he understands it is permissible to reach between them, to coax Melvin into hardness with his fingers. A deft fist and it is over too soon when Melvin cries out against his shoulder.

“I love you.”

\----------

Those words enchant and enrapture, carrying a tune through the month of October, and winding around Waver’s heart. I Love You is scrawled in the tags on chocolates left in his mailbox. I Love You is whispered against his skin as they sit in candle-lit restaurants and Melvin meticulously kisses each knuckle on his hand. I Love You is whimpered into the crook of his neck as he thrusts into the other man’s tight heat. The night after the graduation ball it had been Waver on his knees, held down by capable and knowledgeable hands. Now it is always like this, face to face, breaths intertwining, and Melvin laid out underneath to be taken and cared for as he demands.

Waver never says it back.

“Do you love me?” Melvin asks. He grips Waver’s waist to pull the other man through the steps of waltz played out by a tinny gramophone. A saccharine activity, Waver knows, but there is only Melvin to see.

“Yes.”

That is enough. Mollified by sincere gaze, Melvin does not press upon Waver’s inability to voice his affections. Waver is grateful. To speak love into the air is not as easy as Melvin makes it out to be. Children learn definitions and context through modeling their environment and to Waver the phrase is alien to the ear and even more out of place on his tongue. He is not confident in his definition of the word. His mother only dim memories, Glen and Martha more pen and ink forms than people, Iskander . . . all of them different yet all scooped together under the inadequate word Love. He cannot lie to Melvin by feeding him half-baked emotions. Waver hesitates. Yet, sometimes when Melvin’s hair catches silver in the moonlight, he feels the words heavy in his mouth, but like marbles the foreign form inhibits any coherent speech. Instead he will kiss, and Melvin will sigh and there will be a thread of recognition. It is not cowardice, he tells himself, it is diligence. He will not make any more mistakes.

After a month the cold invades, pressing in with an urgency that Waver feels more in Melvin’s body than in his own. The other man grows restless. They both know he cannot stay for the winter.

He leaves for Mexico in early November. Waver takes him to airport and there are elaborate goodbyes as Melvin proclaims what an eternity it will be without his dear Waver. Victoria watches with wry smile. Somewhere Melvin gains a burst of strength as he dips Waver to kiss him in front his mother, the other passengers and God.

“I’ll miss you!” he waves as he is led into the boarding area. “Never forget, I love you!”

The weeks soar by, Waver does not have much time to fixate on memories of pliant body and playful grey eyes before the holiday season is upon them. His apprentice has set up a small tree in his study and festooned it with simple bulbs and a line of tinsel. The display adds enough festive cheer to alleviate any accusations of being a curmudgeon, so Waver allows it.

On Christmas morning he walks into his office. There is no life in the school, just as he planned, a day without distractions.

“Sir, before you go to work, shouldn’t we open the gifts first?”

“That was last night, and it was a horrific experience all around. Remind me not to permit that holiday party debacle next year.”

“But a new present came this morning while you were sleeping. I put it under the tree.”

Waver stoops the examine the package. Trussed in brown butcher paper and smelling faintly of tobacco It is easy to make out the sender’s name: Melvin Weins, with an address in Spanish. He gingerly raises the package and tears off the paper. The book inside is unassuming with no title, but a fine leather cover. On every page is a flower. They are diverse, he recognizes ones from Japan, and where he does not know there are captions in Melvin’s neat penmanship. Mexico, Greece, South Africa, Argentina. His favorites he finds at the very back. He does not need a label to recognize these flowers from their walk two months ago, Melvin’s birthday. Asters, dahlias, a single broad sunflower. He appreciates these the most. They radiate British simplicity and symbols of home.

The book goes on his bedside table.


	6. Waver

The new year crawls in like a leper. The glitz and glory of the holidays and the adrenaline of end of semester is gone. Waver finds he wanders more in order to escape the dark hole of his apartment or the stifling air of his office. There is no solace in the London streets that streak with dark snow and reek of broken resolutions. Melvin would find this beautiful. He’d point at the imperfections in the places, the people and sermonize. How can life be beautiful without pain? Yes, that is what Melvin would say.

It has been three months since Melvin’s departure. He misses him. It would be hard admission, but Waver thinks he can stomach it to see the joy that will illuminate Melvin’s face. He can imagine it, the twinkle of recognition transforming into crowing in triumph, before Melvin would throw himself against Waver’s chest. He would card hands through Melvin’s hair and swing a hand down to perhaps squeeze at Melvin’s thigh in a premonition that would make Melvin whimper in anticipation. Now there is nothing to do with his hands except shove them into coat pockets to protect from frostbite. He walks without aim, reveling in his imagination, until he finds himself in a familiar spot: the Weins townhouse.

There is light emanating from the window.

A flame? He dashes forward to find, no, electric lights, just the lamps. A burglary then? No sign of forced entry. The windows and door remain intact. He peers through the window seeking some intruder, a skulking stranger, but the face that he finds is one he knows.

Victoria Weins is hunched over the couch, her hair loose and cascading down her shoulders, framing a face blotched and puffy. She has been crying. Her bloodshot eyes catch him in a vice and a torrent of fear crashes into him. His feet are leaden, pinning him to the pavement as she rises, moves towards him, disappears to the side. Then the click of a lock and the door is pulled open.

“I knew we wouldn’t be able to fool you for long. Come in. Melvin won’t be pleased, but it can’t be helped now I suppose.”

She turns abruptly, giving him no time to remove his coat and scarf as he is pulled like a magnet down the hall and up the stairs. He feels the uneasiness of walking past a freshly prepared grave. When he finally sees Melvin he cannot contain a groan in anguish.

“Go away.”

Melvin is sprawled on the bed. His limbs look inhumanly broken in their gauntness where sinew stretches over protruding bone. His hair is tied in a loose ponytail to keep it away from where a wet cloth is pressed to his neck. Head flopped to the side, facing the door, an arm comes up to shield himself from Waver’s inspection, but Melvin’s efforts do not hide his hands marked by tracks of blue veins, pulsing sluggishly under yellowed skin. Grey eyes are dull and similarly yellowed underneath the fringe of hair.

“I thought you were in Mexico.”

“I was. I returned. And it would be very good for both of us if you could leave right now and pretend you never saw this. This isn't part of the plan.”

“What are you talking about, idiot?!” Waver roars, and he would grab Melvin if he did not fear the other man would disintegrate in his hands. Instead he grips the edge of the bed with a savagery that makes it shake and Melvin shudder. “What fucking plan? For you to suffer in silence?”

“Yes. Now be off with you.”

“Shut up! You have no right to tell me what to do. I’m not going to let you lay here and feel sorry for yourself.”

That hits a nerve. Melvin snarls and Waver is yanked forward by his collar, knees collapsing as he kneels beside the bed, pressed nose to nose with the sick man.

“I have a right to live my life however I see fit! Just because you’re my lover does not mean you can force yourself into this, Waver Velvet.”

“Is that not what you wanted?” Waver chokes out bitterly, “All those I Love Yous, always you with your stupid words! What did it mean then? Or was it just something to throw around to get a little fun out of a lost man? You don’t know what love is or you wouldn’t be hiding from me here. Love is standing by someone through all their battles, in victory and defeat.” Golden armor, a red bridge, the roar of a king. “To be loyal even in death-“

“Well, good for you I’m going to be dead soon,” Melvin throws back his head in wet, hiccupping laughter. The manic look in his eyes impales Waver like a sword. “Impeccable timing since I’ve got a few days left at most. How will you prove your worth?”

Waver stands.

“You knew.”

Melvin shrugs his shoulders in concession and lets out one last feeble tight-lipped giggle.

“You. Absolute. Bastard. You knew all along when this was going to happen, and you weren’t going to tell me! What was the great plan: have me start a new semester with a fresh casket in my classroom?” Waver feels searing hysterics bubbling upwards, bearing down upon the dam in his throat. He must leave before it breaks.

“Please don’t be mad,” Melvin sighs in defeat. “Wait, where are you going?”

“TO FIND SOMETHING TO FIX THIS!” Waver screams, “Because I’ll be damned if give you the satisfaction of dying on me!”

“Waver . . . “ The sound of his name is a siren call. Melvin reaches out, cups his face, and pulls him down for a kiss against chapped lips. Traitorous body he has, Waver feels a surge of relief at the touch and if he thought he missed Melvin before, now he is overcome with the reality. His lover tastes of copper and acid, but there is also mint and fresh water and love. A hideous state they are both in as Waver feels the sobs wrenched out of his chest, accompanied by fat tears that roll down their connected arms onto the sheets.

“I’m not going to just stand back and be useless this time. This is a promise, Melvin. Not again.”


	7. Grey

Waver,  
If you are reading this note I have completed the circuit transference ceremony. Mother has been instructed on how to tune your crest in the future as I will no longer be available for the privilege. I knew I had to act fast before you wasted any more energy on this useless case. I absolve you of any duty to come to the funeral, I know you are a busy man, and I am certain it will be an insufferable affair.  
Forgive my selfishness. I know I cause you pain and it is blissful to imagine sorrow staining your beautiful face. What an honor to be loved.  
I have only one regret and that is leaving you without your oldest friend. Although the thought fills me with jealousy, I do hope you can again find someone else who will call you by your real name. You deserve to be admired, but you also deserve to be known. I am happy to have known you.  
Be true to yourself, my love.  
\- Melvin Weins

\----------

Officially Professor Velvet takes a voluntary leave of absence. A forced sabbatical, they call it behind closed doors, but the Clock Tower Lords hold their venom for once. Lord El Melloi II is left to his own devices and Grey works overtime. In the initial days, she lights incense to help him sleep, plies him with the tiniest spoonful of food held in front of where he is slumped for hours, eyes fixed on the plaster walls. After a week, he is pliable enough she can undress and push him into the bath. Once he finally eats one small meal per day and sleeps more than three hours at a time, she brings him books and games to be consumed vociferously and discarded with indifference. The words and images are meaningless, their purpose only to fill the days and weeks that blur together. If her Master still breathes that is a success, Grey tells herself, sweeping up broken glass from another night when Waver’s memories overtake him. She tries to hide the whisky, but when she arrives to the sight of empty tumblers, neither of them can rile at the betrayal. Instead she wipes soothing balm against his tear streaked face and coaxes him to bed.

The elongated days bring light into their lives. In March, Waver leaves the house for the first time in two months. At the Clock Tower, he cleaves the crowd in half. The students press away from him, palms covering hushed whispers. He sits like a stone sentinel at the back of classrooms and leaves before the toll of the bell. In April, Grey sweeps out his office.

“I’m sorry for the mess,” he says, and she knows he refers to more than the dust.

In May, he starts to take interest again in study and makes requests for esoteric volumes Grey is happy to fetch. His desk is once again scattered with notes. Grey no longer sits with him through the night to alleviate the loneliness. His sleep is lengthy, but he awakes with an expression of resignation. 

“Do you think it could have been avoided?” he asks one day where they sit on the park bench, escaping from the end of school year festivities and bright sun, with sandwiches in their laps.

“If there had been a way don’t you think Master Weins would have tried his best to find it?” she counters.

Waver stares at his palms. The world here with Grey feels more insubstantial than his nightly dreams of crashing waves and soaring violins. With hobbled steps he is learning how to walk the line again, but he does not think the vertigo of loss will ever relinquish its redoubled clutch on his heart.

“There is still time before the next war,” he muses. “I’ll investigate the mechanics. There must be a way for the Grail to grant two wishes as one.“ He closes his fists in conviction and Grey cannot suppress her gasp at the fire in his eyes.

By the next fall, Waver is back to old haunts and reinstated head of the Modern Magecraft Department. If he appears grimmer than before no one dares mention it. All they require from him is to maintain his position as teacher and guide and in that he can deliver. His mind is still quick, his research thorough, his engagement with students remarkable. Life charges onwards and mage society barely notices the absence of a certain white-haired invalid.

All that remains of Melvin Weins is a book of pressed flowers tucked away in a vault for safekeeping, wrapped in an old Admiral Tactics t-shirt and a scrap of crimson cloak.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading. please, please, please leave a comment if you enjoyed or were moved by this story. feedback is what gets me to continue writing. and/or follow me on twitter [nickyfolcart](https://twitter.com/nickyfolcart) (main waverposting) or on tumblr [theblindtorpedo](www.theblindtorpedo.tumblr.com)


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